


Tall Tales to Tell in the Dark

by kinklock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bedtime Stories, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Podfic Available, it’s sweet they’re nice to each other, just working through those communication issues!, post post Series 3, series 4 is not acknowledged so i guess it’s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-04 22:29:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12177756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinklock/pseuds/kinklock
Summary: John loves Sherlock, and if Sherlock wants a bedtime story, by God, he’ll get one.





	Tall Tales to Tell in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Well guys it’s been a year but it looks like I still work here. thanks to bruna and soli for giving this a beta read, and special thanks to the person who anonymously sent me the original 'all these AUs are bed time stories' ask, and to the thisremindsmeofjohnandsherlock.tumblr.com blog for providing me with ample inspiration. I rated this E to be on the safe side? thanks for coming out. 
> 
> We are all you and me but we’re olives.

Now, where were we? John says. That’s how he always starts. As if the story never ends, so much as it waits to be continued.

 

In the kitchen, Sherlock says. With the celery and the round bit of cheese.

 

Really? John rolls onto his side; Sherlock mirrors him. They’re lying in bed underneath the plaid throw from John’s armchair, scratchy side up, at Sherlock’s request. Not that John can tell which is the scratchier side. John’s legs stick out, but Sherlock’s stick out even further. Something unspecified happened to their duvet.

 

Really. To be precise, an unknown villain was slathering the celery with something unsavoury, like peanut butter. The cheese, partially melted on its left side, rolled out from the cupboard above to land on the knife, sending it careening through the air—

 

Do you want to tell the story?

 

Not particularly. I don’t even like that one.

 

What, why not? John pushes himself up onto an elbow, his torso rising as the plaid throw slips down. He catches Sherlock’s glance at the scar on his shoulder. Does the celery remind you of the five a day you’re not getting?

 

Is now really the time to discuss my diet? Sherlock places three fingers on John’s chest, lightly pressing. Sherlock says: Besides, I rather think I've been getting at least two a day as of late. Three last Wednesday, wasn’t it?

 

Two and a half. John lets the fingers guide him till he’s lying back down.

 

Two and three quarters, surely. To be clear—his voice drops low—I’m not referring to my fruit and veg intake.

 

Yeah, I had gathered that. Well done, you. Great innuendo. Made perfect sense.

 

Thank you. I hear the suggested has actually been upped to ten day. Have you heard that, doctor?

 

John laughs behind the back of his hand. Ambitious of you.

 

A damp breeze drifts in through the cracked window to nip at their exposed toes. Sherlock bends his knees till his feet press into John’s thigh. John catches them by the arches and rubs. A car somewhere outside splashes past. Something unspecified happened to the window.   

 

You don’t like the celery being saved by the cheese. I suppose that’s it. Okay. Scratch that. Let’s mix it up. The cheese is now a potato, and the celery has to—

 

That’s not it at all. A cheese is a gross mischaracterization, and as you brought it up, so is a potato. Why a potato, John? A potato and celery are of a different genus. They could never be lovers.

 

Right, of course.  John smiles. He can’t get too bent out of shape when Sherlock’s like this. Not when Sherlock says things like “lovers”.

 

I prefer the one with the cats, Sherlock says. Or the dogs.

 

I never get anywhere with the dogs, remember? We could never decide on the breeds.

 

Just use the breeds I picked.

 

King of compromise, you are. John sighs, though he hardly means it. He’s not exasperated at all. He likes to accommodate him. Well, here it goes. Once upon a time, there were two strays—

 

You didn’t say the breeds.

 

John turns over onto his front; Sherlock doesn’t mirror him. Sherlock never does. Something unspecified happened to his back.

 

You know, John says to his pillow, I don’t think this is helping you sleep.

 

Sherlock rests a hand on the mattress in between them. Near John’s waist, not touching. Maybe I don’t feel much like sleeping.

 

Oh, John says. Oh.

 

Come here.

  


+

  


These days John falls asleep with at least three limbs tossed over him. Sometimes the combination is two arms and a leg, sometimes two legs and an arm, and sometimes two legs and… Well, technically, it’s not a “limb”, but Sherlock giggles when John’s crass and “your third leg” gets him in hysterics. That can lead to other things, but it always ends about the same: drift off, and come to in the midst of a dimly lit distress.

 

It’s a soft panic. A gasp, a heaving chest. A bare foot braced into the small of John’s back, jittering across his spine. A nose sniffing at the nape of his neck, though it isn’t so much smelling  as it is breathing, and too fast at that. A fingertip, running over his eyebrow against the grain, pushing till all of John’s hairs stand up on end, across his forearms and legs and chest. Nothing gives him goosebumps like Sherlock checking to see if he’s really there, as if John’s the one who likes to give dying a go and then come back when it doesn’t suit him. Not that it’s the resurrections that John minds.  

 

Maybe dying isn’t so nice. John wouldn’t know; he’s never had the luck. John does know a thing or two about nightmares, though, so when he does get up the courage to ask—just ask him!—he goes with: bad dream?

 

He’s a man of many words.

 

It’s more direct than they’re used to being. It’s funny. Sherlock can talk at length when he has the right audience, loves those, but he can get shy sometimes. No one would ever think him shy, except when it’s just the two of them. With John, he is.

 

Sherlock explains to the ceiling. John follows his gaze so they’re looking at the same spot, a bit of nicked plaster above their heads. He wonders how that happened, then wonders if he even wants to know.

 

Dreaming isn’t really the trouble, Sherlock says. It’s the waking up.

 

+

  


The story stretches its back with a crack, and continues.

 

At the top of a precipice, two rams fight. Their horns crash and grip, evenly matched in battle, but one is more determined than the other, more ferocious, and pushes the other ram back toward the hill’s edge. This ram thinks himself brave. Or, so he did, till the other ram catches him unaware, slipping out from his hold and hitting him hard in his side, sending him tumbling down the mountain. Along his descent, the defeated ram scrabbles against the unforgiving rock to no avail, and is only saved when he lands on a small outcropping along the mountain’s side. There is some grass to eat and a puddle of water to lap, but not enough to last him for very long. There is ground to stand on, but not enough for him to have true freedom. He is injured, and limps about his small ledge in misery. When he runs out of grass and rainwater, even though his life has just been spared, he knows he will have to walk off the edge, and dash himself to bits on the rocks below.

 

That’s a bit colourful.  

 

Do you want me to stop? John asks. It’s best to check, John never knows what will offend him. Little things can set Sherlock off, and they can bring the narrative to a halt more screeching than Sherlock in a bad mood on his violin strings.

 

No, Sherlock says. I want to hear more about this ram. I imagine he’s ferocious despite his relative size to others in the animal kingdom.

 

John knows he’s being mocked, but it’s the kind of joke that makes him feel in on it. They’re lying under a new duvet. It’s long enough to drape over the end of the bed, but Sherlock’s toes are between his thighs any way.

 

The ram’s not that small. And he has massive horns.

 

Hmm. I’d like to touch his horn.

 

I bet you would.

 

And pet his white fur.

 

Please don’t make this weird. The point is, the ram thought it was all over. Until a clever goat arrives.

 

A goat? Sherlock sits up against the headboard.

 

You see, goats can scale mountainsides. They can walk along almost vertical inclines. This goat lived on the mountain, knew all the best places for salt, and he’d been told about the ram who lived half-way up it. As the goat came toward the ram who lay there injured, the ram couldn’t believe his eyes.

 

A _goat?_

 

It was like the goat was floating. Like Jesus walking on water.

 

First a goat, now Jesus. Are you sure you’re in love with me?

 

John shifts up and over till he’s on top of Sherlock, and pushes Sherlock’s fringe to the side. First, he kisses that wrinkling forehead, and then that downturned mouth. He pulls back to see the smile replace the frown, and then kisses just the bottom lip, again, and again.

 

Mmm. Quite sure.

 

Quieter now, Sherlock says: carry on, then. The Goat Messiah, here I come. Do I—I’m sorry, the goat—does the goat get the ram off the mountain? Would the ram, in fact, be all that impressed with the goat? Big horned sheep are also capable of steep ascent—

 

Goats are more agile, so yeah, he’s impressed. The goat saves him.

 

How? Ropes and pulleys?

 

I did say he was a clever goat.  

 

Better than Jesus?

 

Watch yourself, now. You know what happened to John Lennon when he said that.

 

You know very well that I don’t, John, but I assume you’re going to tell me.

 

Burnings, mostly.

 

Oh, Sherlock says, just that.

  


+

  


Tell me a story. That’s how it really starts. When Sherlock wakes him up like that, John asks too many questions—or rather, he doesn’t, actually, but there’s about a million of them running through his head, and Sherlock can see them in his eyes, or in the crusted custard on his best jumper the next day, or something like that. So instead of answers, John gets: tell me a story.

 

It’s sweet. Bedtime stories. It’s worse than sweet, actually, it’s adorable. But first, John has his back up a little. He remembers Sherlock’s commentaries on his blog posts, after all. Is this so you can take the piss?

 

That makes Sherlock’s eyebrows draw together and his eyes get that baby blue, watery look, and John feels like a right bastard. This is why, a voice says, this is why he won’t tell you. Trust. You still don’t believe that things have changed, that it’s not the same as it has been in the past, and you let him down like that. John doesn’t mean to. He loves him. John loves Sherlock, and if Sherlock wants a bedtime story, by God, he’ll get one.

 

Still, John asks, you mean like my blog?

 

And Sherlock says, not exactly.

  


+

  


It’s cliche—maybe—and vulgar—without a doubt—but despite all that, it is unbearably, toe-curlingly hot when Sherlock loosens around his fingers.  

 

The sounds he makes. John’s sure people going by on the street must hear them going at it through the cracked window, but that makes it—embarrassing, later, but he’s never in that headspace in the moment. No, he’s in between Sherlock’s thighs and putting his mouth on anything he can reach: the lowest rib, belly button, and with a stretch, back to the underside of Sherlock’s chin. John’s fingers slip out, and Sherlock complains, but John has to get back up there, kissing his cheeks, his nose, his open mouth. Sherlock cups his jaw, and John stills. John didn’t know he was—frantic—until Sherlock calms him. Sherlock’s other hand slides around his neck, and holds, along the edge of his hairline. It’s—safe.

 

John washed his hair earlier, and without any product in it now the long bit hangs down in front of his face. Sherlock brushes it back, then lets it fall again. Push. Fall. Push. Fall.

 

I should cut it, John says, and Sherlock just runs his fingers through it again.

 

What? No comment? Don’t act like you don’t have an opinion. You used to have opinions on my personal grooming before we were even together.

 

Sherlock kisses his nose. We were always together.

 

John laughs a little, beneath his breath. He wishes that were true.

 

John, Sherlock says, have you forgotten where we were?

 

No, John says. Because he hasn’t. We were with the two succulents, John says, when we last left off. The cactus escaped from his pot, soil spilling everywhere—

 

Sherlock lifts his hips, pushing up into John’s belly. His hand slides down John’s neck to his back, to his bum. John, I rather meant my third leg.

 

John thrusts back, then sniggers. That’s—that’s got to be the least sexy thing you could possibly—

 

You don’t find me sexy?

 

John kisses the palm touching his hair, and reaches low with dripping fingers.

 

Don’t be an idiot.

  


+

  


Tonight, Sherlock’s coat is in the bed with them. Like a melted man, it sits in a puddle at the foot of the bed, arms crossed over and folded. John doesn’t like the look of it in the dim light, so pulls it up towards him with his feet, and tosses it over them. Wet wool, old smoke, new cologne. Sherlock doesn’t question this, the same way John didn’t question its presence. Sherlock slips closer across the sheet till his head is under John’s chin, and his breath puffs across John’s chest, stirring the few light hairs that reside there. John kisses the crown of Sherlock’s head. It smells like John’s shampoo. They share now, he supposes. Under the coat’s protection, the tale goes on.  

 

The hero brought home the missing tea bag—the one that could be used over and over again, forever, and which always steeped perfectly—astonishing every test tube, emptied ice cream tub, and stained mug in the entire kitchen. But it was not their praise that the hero sought.

 

Not to interrupt you, John—

 

Well, you just have.

 

—Sorry. But, remind me again, who is the hero?

 

The hero’s a Bialettia Moka pot.

 

Sherlock stares at him, so John clarifies: it’s a coffee maker thing. You know. The metal one. And his dear friend is the teapot, who likes to brew tea with the magic tea bag. He’s the one whose praise the hero really sought, just to wrap this up.

 

Quite right, though I think these pots might be more than just dear friends.

 

Hmm, John says, with a smile that he cannot, and does not, try to contain. I think you might be right.

 

Why’s the coffee thing got a brand name when the teapot’s just a teapot?

 

Christ. John laughs, helpless to Sherlock when he’s like this. It isn’t a specific teapot. Or, all right, fine. It’s a brown betty.

 

Excellent. Oh, John, that’s excellent!

 

Is it?

 

Not showy, but still the best teapot. It’s perfect for you.

 

Oh, uh. Thanks.

 

Why do I have to be a coffee maker? If you’re a teapot, I want to be a teapot too.

 

John laughs again. Sherlock can be just like a little kid sometimes. All right. You’re a teapot. A posh one, like out of a modern design magazine.

 

You should be the kettle.

 

Why’s that?

 

So you can spill into me.

 

Jesus, Sherlock.

 

Your hot—

 

I’m begging you to stop. But they’re both laughing now, and John’s pleased. Very pleased. Even that’s perhaps an understatement.

 

You know, I’m starting to notice a trend here, John says, a while later. After John has followed up on that clumsy, but endearing—Christ, it’s all so endearing—innuendo.

 

Goodness, Sherlock says. He taps John on the tip of his nose. It’s almost as if you’re a detective…

 

Hush. John stretches his arms above his head, hands slipping beneath his pillow. He breathes out hard through his nose. He looks at the ceiling. It’s just, you know that if you want sex, you can just say so. We don’t need this whole song and dance about being a penne and a spaghetti, or a baguette and a bun, or—

 

Not to stop you from listing carbohydrate dense foods, John, I’m sure you can think of many more, but that’s not—what this is about.

 

John stops looking at the ceiling. Then what is it? About, I mean. You never have just one reason for asking something, do you?

 

No, Sherlock says. I suppose I don’t.

 

He doesn’t elaborate further. John assumes Sherlock falls asleep, but his breathing never quite evens out.

  


+

  


Pulling a feather loose from the pillow beneath him, John tucks it behind Sherlock’s ear, and resumes:

 

There was once a beautiful peacock who only used his feathers for good. Unlike other peacocks, he could change his feathers like a chameleon, which allowed him to wear many different disguises. This was not a gift he had simply been born with, mind you. He had started with a knack for it, and had honed the skill throughout his lifetime till he was able to match every specific shade and hue, even texture. By doing so, he was able to help others with all sorts of bird troubles, like missing nests, disappearing eggs, and stolen mates.

 

Not alone, surely?

 

I’m getting to that.

 

Get to it faster.

 

Okay. There was another bird. Not a peacock. One of those brownish, blond ones.

 

Really, John. You don’t even know what type of bird?

 

This not-peacock bird—a duck, we’ll say—thought the peacock was the best bird he had ever met, but he knew he would have to hatch a plan if he wanted the peacock to look twice at him. He tricked the peacock into thinking he was the same as him by collecting bright, colourful autumn leaves, and stuck them in his back to make them look like tail feathers.  When the peacock saw—

 

Stop. Sherlock pulls the feather from behind his ear, and gives it back to John. I don’t like this story.

 

John holds the feather in his palm, unsure what has just happened. There’s no need to be like that. When the peacock saw the bird was faking, he was only impressed by the bird’s ingenuity. It’s not a sad story.

 

I don’t like this. It isn’t true.

 

Sorry, have I been telling you true stories?

 

But Sherlock’s turned away from him. That’s the end of that one, then. John says: All right. So you don’t like the birds. What about the flowers? You always like that one. The, uh, the peony and the—

 

The primrose and the hyacinth! Honestly, John.

 

Silence descends, colder than that damn breeze. John has been meaning to get that window fixed. John has a feeling this is about more than whether he remembers the specific flowers.

 

Later, after minutes of no one speaking, Sherlock mumbles into his pillow. You never had to trick me into looking at you. Why do you think that? That’s a rhetorical question. Don’t. Don’t answer.

 

Sherlock sounds like a bowstring drawn back too far, and John feels like the arrow against it, living in anticipation of being released. John didn’t mean for this. He’s just trying to get across—he’s just trying to convey—how lucky he feels. I’m sorry, John says.

 

No. Don’t be. Sherlock faces him and says: my turn.

  


+

  


There are always two sides to every story, or so people always seem to say. While that’s debatable, this so called other side will be presented as a list of crucial details that have been in the past excluded.

 

Very organized, John says.

 

Thank you, Sherlock says, dipping his chin down to his bare chest. The list is as follows:

 

Something the mountainside dwellers did not know was that the goat who walked on walls— sometimes even ceilings—was aware that one day he might slip, and that he would not mind it if he did. But the day he met a brave sheep, with a stern head of horns and thoughts clearer than rainwater, he changed his mind on that score. He found that, after coming to know the sheep quite well, he no longer feared the landing.

 

Something the teapot did not know was that the hero who returned the magic teabag thought the teapot was the hero, rather than himself.

 

Something the bird folk knew, but didn’t care to dwell on, was that the peacock who used his feathers only for good deeds was rather lonely. The other birds might accept his help, but they didn’t like him for it. With his changing feathers, they never felt at ease around him. The duck had been pretending to be a peacock, but little did he know, the peacock was an impostor too.

 

Something that duck did not know was that the peacock had once been an ugly duckling. Once upon a time, the ugly duckling was caught in Serbia by poachers. They chained up his wings so he couldn’t fly back to that duck he had lied to. They threatened to pluck his feathers, but they needn’t have bothered. When he returned, his gift would not be as special as it once was. The duck had seen other feathers, and was no longer impressed by his.

 

That’s not—that is not right, John says. That’s not why— John cups Sherlock’s face, then, two fingers beneath his chin. Look at me. That’s not true.

 

Sherlock raises his gaze to John, and keeps it there. Now you know what I mean.

  


+

  


John wakes to ten fingers on his face in a position that cannot possibly be comfortable, the joints extending the way only a concert pianist or long time violinist could hold for so long. The fingers aren’t still, though, not exactly. They’re drifting over all the lines, and beneath his eyes, bags, all places that must show his age. Sherlock’s face is screwed up in frustration. It’s as if he’s reading John’s mind, but badly. As if John is a particularly hard nut to crack. John resists calling him Spock again.

 

We can’t keep meeting like this, John says. This is when they usually start to meet again, the other little thems. What Sherlock always wants now is the story. He just needs to remember what he learned about the ugly duckling.

 

John clears his throat. Last time, we left off with the two—

 

Can we remove the pretence? Sherlock’s face is still tied up tighter than a knot. It’s us. You’re talking about us.

 

Fine, John says. Yes. Okay. So, you and me, but we’re…

 

What are we?

 

John isn’t sure he understands what’s happening. Olives?

 

Olives. Really. What are we going to do, besides get brined?

 

Not olives, then. You’re a mop, and I’m a sponge.

 

That makes Sherlock laugh, at least. What adventures we’ll have. Mrs. Hudson will love us.

 

We live in her highest cupboard, if you like. The one only you can reach.

 

I do like. What else are we?

 

You always like when we’re the same type of thing. We could be matches. Starfish. Candles. Clocks.

 

What about men?

 

Sure, John says. That too.

 

+

 

That evening when John sits down in his armchair, he has to climb in sideways. Are these chairs closer than they usually are? John asks. Once he’s managed to get in, his knees are bracketing Sherlock’s neat, crossed legs. The toes of Sherlock’s left foot are tucked underneath John’s armchair.

 

Is this not comfortable for you? Sherlock leans over, folding his hands over his right calf. He lifts his legs clear over John’s, spreading them wide in the air. John closes his legs so Sherlock’s can land.

 

You always like it better when I spread, Sherlock says. The quiet evening living room reading time ends quite quickly after that. The transition from Sherlock in his lap to them in bed is a familiar blur now, both from fantasy versions and reality. After the natural conclusion of any Sherlock innuendo, John lies in the dark with Sherlock on his side—first, he’s tucked against John’s chest, then, he’s tucked underneath John’s back, a shoulder under his, then a chest, and before John knows it, he’s being held. They haven’t fallen asleep yet, but John can feel it coming on soon. He wonders if it’s a bedtime story night, or if those have come to an end.

 

When I wake up, Sherlock says, then stops, groans, and starts again, like a stalling car. When I wake up, during the short period between sleep and full consciousness, I think that I’m waking up somewhere else. To the way it was before.

 

John stays as quiet and still as he is able. Sherlock is still under him, around him.

 

It’s only when I’m fully awake that I know where I am and that you’re there next to me. Falling back asleep means returning to not that, it means going back to not knowing. It’s not that I dream bad things, but once I’m awake, I want to stay awake. With you. And sometimes I then also want to be—

 

Closer. John twists to reach for his hand. Sherlock reaches back, and squeezes. Tight. Then releases. They face each other.

 

Sherlock says: I want to know what you’re thinking. Always. I’ve misjudged—not you, but your thoughts, in the past. You think I’m so high above things, but you know better than anyone what an _idiot_ I’ve been—and if I simply asked you, do you know what you’d say? Great. Fine. Dandy.

 

I’m sure I’ve never said dandy.  

 

I wish you would! It would be more descriptive. Don’t you see? It can’t be a regular conversation, that doesn’t allow you to convey the richness of it. I needed a way to make it easier for you to say it, like how you were told to blog, though I think my solution is more sophisticated. Whether I’m a green onion and you’re a squat hot pepper, it doesn’t matter.

 

You _would_ think bedtime stories are sophisticated. Like drinking apple juice out of a wine glass. Do you really want to know what I’m thinking? How I feel?

 

I said think, not feel.

 

You’re overthinking it. The answer is frustratingly simple. Happy.

 

Oh, Sherlock says. Oh.

 

Now you’re wondering, _how happy?_ Very! But you probably want more than that. It’s as if I’ve spent all my life at best just grazing the top of content, glad, appeased, but with you, it’s—it’s—

 

I understand, John. It’s all right.

 

No, I should be able to tell you. I should.

 

Now it’s Sherlock who wraps his hand around John’s trembling, clenching fist. Their fingers lace. When John’s fingers draw in, when his hand curls into itself, Sherlock’s fingers curl in with them.

 

Tell me then, but in your own way. The way you do best.

 

So John kisses him, slow. Not desperate, he doesn’t lose control. There’s been an energy in Sherlock since the start of this speech, the explanation, and it all comes out like a bad spirit exorcised, drawn out from his mouth in a mist. It leaves the same way it came, through the crack in the window.

 

Sherlock flips over, and lies on his front. With the hand not clutched, John touches his shoulder. He runs his short nails down the duckling’s back. Sherlock turns his head to the left, half his face exposed. John brushes the fringe away from his forehead, and Sherlock’s smile peaks out from the side of the pillow. He’s waiting.

 

Now, John says. Where were we?

  
  
  
  


  
  
  


 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Tall Tales to Tell in the Dark](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12333717) by [bagofthumbs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bagofthumbs/pseuds/bagofthumbs)




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